


If I Could Go Back

by last_illusions (injured_eternity), melliyna



Category: CSI: NY, Criminal Minds, NCIS
Genre: Alternate Universe, CM Family Verse, Crossover, Families of Choice, LGBT families, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-24
Updated: 2011-03-24
Packaged: 2017-10-10 06:13:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/96491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/injured_eternity/pseuds/last_illusions, https://archiveofourown.org/users/melliyna/pseuds/melliyna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the day of Derek's high school graduation, and Jason Gideon is standing at the bottom of the porch steps, trying not to hope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 1: This grew out of a comment fic prompt given to melliyna on Dreamwidth: _Gideon comes home_. She threw it to last_illusions; it took on a life of its own from there. Title from Matchbox Twenty's _Downfall_. References to [For All the Roads You Followed](http://archiveofourown.org/works/174971).  
> 2: This is not a terribly Gideon-friendly piece. It can be called an analysis of his motivations--both for leaving and for returning--but it does not extend him any undue favours.  
> 3: This is set in the CM Kid-Verse future, roughly seven years after Gideon left. General spoilers for the rewrite of all five seasons of Criminal Minds and some for the S5 rewrite in particular. _CSI: NY_ and _NCIS_ both play minimal roles; understanding of either show is not necessary, and spoilers are insignificant.
> 
> Warnings: language, themes (references to violence, abandonment, general trauma, sexual innuendo)

**Prologue**

May 18th. It's uncomfortably humid in Alexandria, and in broad daylight the streets are quiet. David Rossi has never been so grateful for a quiet neighbourhood in his life.

Jennifer Jane is at the corner of the porch, standing in the shade with tears streaming silently down her cheeks and a hand pressed tightly over her mouth, like she's trying to shrink into the panelling of the house itself. Dave wants desperately to go to her, but he's got a vise grip on an armful of furious teenager, and he's not so young anymore that arguing with a football quarterback is easy work. Emily, his too-old-for-her-years mirror of her father, stands stiffly with her hands flat at her sides, dark eyes smouldering and expression glaringly blank. "You are not welcome here," she says silently, the image of Aaron in the face of injustice.

And Aaron. Aaron's standing with shattered glass at his feet, one hand braced on the support beams, one hand on the railing, like he doesn't know how to hold himself upright anymore. His expression is nothing but blank devastation, the broken rage lurking underneath without a means of attacking—and so his eldest daughter embodies his fury like a herald's banner. Penelope is the one bright spot in a scene that feels like a film noir shoot, hiding behind Aaron with glittering fairy wings that are unnaturally still. But no one's calling "Cut!", and Derek's still struggling against Dave, trying to force his way to the porch.

 

_And still I dreamed he'd come to me,  
That we would live the years together.  
But there are dreams that cannot be,  
And there are storms we cannot weather_.  
"I Dreamed a Dream" -- Les Misérables

 

**Part One**

"Oh, come on, Mac, you expect me to believe he just fell out of the sky?"

"I'm telling you he did," Mac Taylor swears to the brunette with him. "One minute Flack and I are standing next to the building, and the next there's a body in front of us."

"Plane overhead? Someone jumping without a chute?" Stella Bonasera shoots him a decidedly sceptical look, dark brows inching toward her hairline. "You of all people can't believe he just appeared out of thin air. There has to be a rational explanation."

"At least as rational as the one for that eyeball that landed in your coffee," he answers drily, and she laughs, pushing her sunglasses up on top of her head.

"True."

Mac opens his mouth to continue—something about lab results that he won't remember until he's leaving the diner—and that's when he sees him, sitting over in the back corner, reading a newspaper.

"Mac?" Stella's got a hand on his shoulder, and the combined concern and impatience in her voice tell him she's called his name more than once.

"Sorry," he says, shaking his head and throwing her an apologetic look.

Expression assessing, she tips her head to the side. "You look like you just saw a ghost."

_I did_, he thinks but doesn't say, because it's been eight years, and still he hasn't quite forgotten cursing himself as he listened to Aaron Hotchner struggle to remember how to breathe on the other end of the phone. Aloud, he says only, "Just an old friend I haven't seen in a while," and then he pauses, arguing with himself over the merits of continuing. "I know we were trying to just get a quiet lunch, but would you mind if we joined him?"

"Of course not," she responds without a moment's hesitation, then places her order at the counter. She grabs the coffee the waitress hands her and stands to the side as he places his own.

"Addict," she teases gently when he walks away with a large coffee and both their sandwiches, and he raises one disbelieving dark brow, blue eyes amused.

"Hypocrite," he shoots back with a pointed look at her own cup, grabbing mustard for himself and ketchup for her as she picks up their order of fries.

Joining him at the counter, she asks, "Pepper?" from over his shoulder, a flyaway curl tickling the back of his neck.

"Already." He nudges her with his shoulder and gestures at the rear corner with his coffee. "After you."

In truth, he wants an excuse to wait, watching the older man at the table with something like apprehension. He does, however, have the sense to announce their presence before they're actually there. It won't do to be shot for carelessness, since knowing his old friend, the man's carrying despite disaffiliation with law enforcement and the no-carry laws in Manhattan. He'd rather be alive and indicted than law-abiding and dead, and Mac can't really say he blames him—not in this case, anyway.

"Jason?" he calls, and the man at the table pauses before looking up. It's a calculated move slow enough to be coincidental if it has to, but when he sees Mac, his expression relaxes into a smile.

"Mac, Stella!" he exclaims, folding his paper. "I didn't expect to see you."

Tipping his head at the booth, Mac asks, "May we?"

"Of course." Jason Gideon cares less for social formality than most, but he's not entirely without manners, and he pulls his tray a little closer as Mac lets Stella precede him into the booth.

"What are you doing in New York?" he asks curiously, avoiding the obvious question hovering between them after their last meeting.

Hesitating—which is telling in and of itself—Jason takes a drink of coffee to buy time before admitting, "On my way down to Alexandria."

"Work?" Mac inquires. He isn't sure he wants to know the longer answer, but he asks it anyway because at a certain point he needs to know.

And there's another hesitation, more telling than the last. "My route takes me through there, yes."

"It's a lovely drive this time of year," Stella says, offering them both a way out. She knows some of the story, enough to understand the implications and unvoiced currents, but she's less vested in this than Mac is and is willing to offer them a tangent to catch.

Jason nods, looking grateful—as much Jason Gideon ever does. "That's true. The birds, the birds are less shy this time of year. I forget, sometimes, what a beautiful drive it is, but I'll always remember the birds."

"It's unusually warm weather for May," she comments. "Change their behaviour patterns at all?"

Which is all it takes, really: BAU he may no longer be, but it's in his nature to observe behaviour, note when it changes and what causes it. The brief, seemingly innocuous question is enough to spark a detailed conversation on changing migratory patterns, and it's more than Mac's ever known or wanted to know about birds. He can't tell if Jason's taking the bait to prevent Mac from asking the awkward questions or if he's just genuinely off on a tangent (it could be a little bit of both), so he just settles in anyway and lets Stella guide the conversation in that subtle way she has.

After half an hour (_time flies when you're having fun_, he thinks wryly) of discussing the weather and a handful of idle comments on one of their particularly strange cases, Stella nudges him with her shoulder and her knee simultaneously. "Meeting with the DA," she says in response to his puzzled expression.

"Ah," he answers with a sympathetic nod, pushing himself out of the booth to let her stand. He holds out a hand she doesn't need; she takes it to give him the momentary grounding he does.

"You want to join us for the fireworks?"

He laughs, squeezing her hand. "I think I'll pass this time, catch up with Jason."

If her look is a little too knowing, they both have the grace to ignore it; she'll prod at him for explanations later, and with any luck he'll have cohesive answers. For now, she just turns back to the table. "Good seeing you again, Jason. Safe driving."

"You, too, Stella, thanks," he answers with a nod and something like a smile.

He makes no move toward anything like giving her a hug or shaking her hand, and neither does she; instead, she tosses a grin at Mac with a "See you back at the lab" and makes her way out of the diner. For a long minute, he and Jason sit in silence, in which he watches the other man pointedly not toy with the handle of his coffee cup.

"So, Jason, what are you are really doing?" He finally breaks the silence.

"What do you mean?" the older man responds with a perfectly blank expression, and Mac shakes his head.

"You know full well what I mean," he answers pointedly. "What are you doing as a trucker? And why the hell didn't you come back? Or send word?" He's angrier than maybe he wants to show, but it's Jason, and sometimes it's the only way to make your point.

"I sent word, afterward. Don't think I didn't—they have a letter." Jason doesn't look especially defensive or even especially sad. In fact, he seems more sure of himself than Mac remembers him being in a long time. In some ways, that's worse.

"A letter is all you gave them?" The surprise bleeds through in spite of all his efforts. "In eight years, that's all?"

"It's safe now," Gideon says with a conviction that slips under Mac's skin and prickles like a warning. "I can come back now, because it's safe. I can see my family again."

Mac isn't entirely sure what to say, uncertain of how to interpret that. So he starts with an "Eight years gone is a lot to just show up out of nowhere…" that's somewhere between wary and cautionary, and the older man looks at him with something like surprise.

"Things are okay now," he repeats, like Mac hadn't heard him the first time. "It'll be fine, Mac."

Shaking his head, the CSI looks over at his friend, pursing his lips. "You really haven't thought this through, have you?" Pausing, trying to find an acceptable follow-up, he finally settles on, "Have you thought about how things might have changed? About what kind of a shock this is going to be?"

"They'll understand," Jason answers firmly, and Mac wonders if he's let himself even begin to consider what will happen if they don't. "Aaron always understood. And the kids will... they'll get it." Then he tips his head slightly and asks, "Have you heard from Aaron, then? Has something changed?"

Stunned by the audacity of the question, Mac tries to hide it with the obvious. "…He thought you were dead, Jason." At the raised eyebrows, he hurries forward before Jason can speak and bites the bullet. "I got a call from Aaron, a few days after I saw you. We kept in touch, and…" Beat. Another beat. "You couldn't be found, and you left without word. You have to look that in the face and think about what coming back would do to them."

The look on Jason's face remains politely bemused, and Mac realises with growing disbelief and more than a little fear that the older man genuinely does not understand that the family doesn't think he's coming back. Ever. This, the single-minded determination to fix and solve, are what had made him such a brilliant behavioural analyst and profiler. But what had pushed him to the top of his professional field was proving to be his blind spot as far as his personal life went, and the irony was almost physically painful. He was wholly committed to the belief that returning would repair the rift his departure had left, and as the eight years had changed his own situation not at all, he fully expected to find Aaron and his kids as he had left them.

Stella would say it wasn't Mac's place to interfere and tell Jason what had happened. David Rossi would say it wasn't Mac's place to keep his mouth shut. Aaron Hotchner would... would thank him for his support and then jump headlong into his own personal war in the hopes he could serve as a shield. Because none of the advice running through his head matches up, he stops talking. Mostly.

"You're making a mistake, Jason," he says softly, his last effort, "for both you and Aaron."

Jason smiles, just slightly, and there's something approaching patronising in it that worries Mac more than it irritates him. "It's Derek's high school graduation," Jason tells him, like that's sufficient explanation. "It's safe now," he says again, "and it's a good time to go back."

_It's not_, he thinks, a touch desperately, wishing he knew the right words to make the other man see. But he doesn't, and Jason's mobile is chirping at him, and then he's pushing himself to his feet.

"I should be on my way," he explains with a nod toward his phone. "It was good seeing you again, Mac." His tone is just a touch dismissive, says it really wasn't all that wonderful, since Mac clearly didn't understand anything he said.

Mac just nods, sliding out of the booth, as well. "You, too," he replies, since there's nothing else he can say between now and the thirty seconds it will take them to reach the door.

On the sidewalk, Jason tips his head at him and slips away, leaving Mac feeling unsettled and irrationally angry with himself. But it's not until later that day, when he's sitting in his office, that he finds himself dialling Aaron's number without thinking. It's like a replay of the same scene eight years ago; the only difference is that last time, he'd waited a few days, thinking Jason had gone home. This time, he's not even remotely convinced that he hadn't left his persuasive powers in his closet that morning. When he gets the answering machine, he's not certain if he's grateful or more worried, so he leaves a brief message and hangs up. The unsettled feeling doesn't leave him alone.

(_If I Could Go Back_)

Jason Gideon drives the six hours from Manhattan to Alexandria—he only stops once on the way, because he's going home—with a mind on triumph, on a happy return. It's warm enough to have him running the air conditioning, but when he pulls off the freeway and changes over to a pickup truck (an eighteen-wheeler on side streets isn't all that practical), he leaves the air on low and rolls down the windows.

He wonders if Aaron still makes bread on warm days, if the kids still like to help and if they'll all be outside. When he turns into the street, it is coming home, like he's never left, like he's coming home from the Academy after a long case. He can see where the houses have changed, but there are things that have not, like the garish pink mailbox across the street and the plant-strewn porch of the lady two houses down. He wonders if the swing and the sand-pit are still in the back-yard, if the treehouse is still there; he wonders if that nice couple next door—Jenkins, he's pretty sure it was—ever managed to have their baby, if Aaron took the kids by with a casserole. A deep breath, and he steps out of his borrowed car, walking up to the house and enjoying the peace of evening. Their neighbourhood had always fallen into a gentle quiet as the vestiges of afternoon began to blend into early sunset, and it, too, is as he remembered. There's a magnolia tree just off to the side of the front walk, and he pauses, drawing in a lungful of the sweet fragrance, and then he moves on, up the drive until he's standing only a few feet from the porch steps.

And he stops. The front door is open, and through the glass of the storm door, he can see Aaron, who looks just as he remembers, grinning at something that's been said and answering over his shoulder. The storm door opens, and it takes his partner a moment to see him. It's the shattering glass and the shock on Aaron's face that give him the first hint things aren't going to go quite so smoothly as he pictured.

 

_I had a dream my life would be  
So diff'rent from this hell I'm living,  
So diff'rent now from what it seemed.  
Now life has killed the dream I dreamed._  
"I Dreamed a Dream" -- Les Misérables


	2. Chapter 2

Graduation day. Dave admits to still looking at Derek and seeing the kid, not the tall young man with college acceptances, scholarships, and an easier smile than he'd had back then. But he's still Derek, who takes care of his younger siblings and can be found volunteering when he isn't working or playing football. Of course, there's the seventeen-year-old boy thing, but he's got a good heart and he graduated Valedictorian. He'd been nervous about the speech all week, regardless. Pen had threatened to take "SO MANY PHOTOS!" and given Derek a graduation cap decorated with rainbows. He'd worn it anyway, and no one had ventured to tease him, perhaps because it was Derek but perhaps because Pen's enthusiasm is overwhelming even on regular days. Days of celebration? It's impossible to resist.

So they've gotten home and Dave is mentally calculating whether he's made enough food to feed all seven of them (the parties with friends had happened earlier, and this is for the immediate family). He's simultaneously keeping half an eye on Spencer to make sure he doesn't eat all the cake at once and that Derek's favourite foods have all been represented.

"Dad, relax." It's Emily, interrupting him. "We've got enough to eat."

"Yes, Emily-my-Emily, if by 'enough to eat' you mean 'enough so that it will all be gone in ten minutes instead of the usual five'."

"Did you save me the leftover cookie dough?"

"Am I your father, Emmy Hotchner?"

He gets an armful of sixteen-year-old for that answer and waves off a glass of wine from Aaron, who is carrying one of his own. They exchange proud glances, looking over at Derek who is standing by the door, laughing with Pen. Dave is trying not to contemplate the fact that he'll be going off to college in August.

"Dave, did we want to take the food outside before this horde descends on it?"

"Aaron, go outside and relax on the porch for a moment, will you?" Dave just grins at his husband's raised eyebrows. "Besides, I need to finish the potato salad, and you being out of the room increases the odds that I'll have a potato salad to put on the table."

"Okay, okay, going. I admit defeat."

 

_I want you to remember;  
I want you to believe in me;  
I want you on my side_.

 

When Aaron walks out on the porch, it takes a moment for him to catch sight of the man standing by the porch steps. It is like he's seen a ghost for a moment, because he almost doesn't think it is Jason Gideon. He's gotten it wrong, he has to.

It's the sound of the glass of wine shattering that brings Derek out, Dave close behind.

"Papa, are you...?" Derek hasn't used "Papa" for a long time, but there's something about the sight of Aaron's drawn face that slips him back into childhood for a moment. Then he sees the other man standing at the bottom of the porch steps, and that flash of childhood is gone as quickly as it appeared, swept away by a tide of years-long impotent rage.

"What the hell are you—" He takes a harsh step forward that matches his tone, only to be cut off sharply as Dave grabs him firmly from behind.

"Derek."

One soft word is all it takes, but the expression on his face says clearly that his hand has been stayed against his will. If his eyes are any indication, he's of the mind that punching Gideon in the face is a better alternative.

"Why the hell did you come here!" It's not really a question—it's highly unlikely he's especially interested in knowing the answer—but it is at least an attempt to not worsen the situation with a physical alteration. Small blessings.

"Jason." Aaron's voice is soft, almost haggard, and he suddenly feels so painfully old; he can't imagine he sounds that much better. There are abundant clichés about ghosts returning to haunt you, but he's never believed them. Even now, he has a hard time comprehending that this, this mirage and the almost incomprehensible lassitude he feels, is not a figment of his imagination.

For the briefest moment, Jason Gideon's expression flickers with something akin to hope, and Dave involuntarily tightens his grip on his oldest. "What are you doing here?"

Just as quickly, the hope flattens: there is no forgiveness in the question, just weary resignation and perhaps some desperation. "It... I... came to see Derek graduate."

"Eight years and you remembered _that_?" JJ, whose voice breaks halfway through the sentence.

Jason looks like he might step closer, but Dave shoots him a look that says he'll let go, and Derek's got a good deal of strength on the older man. He'll win.

"Jay, honey—"

"Don't call me that!" It's somewhere between a shriek and a sob, and she presses her hand tightly against her mouth like she wants to push the tears and the words back in.

That's when Dave is forced to tighten his grip—somewhere in the back of his mind, Aaron registers the fact that his partner's knuckles are whitening, and there's an absent thought that at the rate they're going, there will be bruises. The part that hurts is the sudden question of if they can possibly hurt more than the pre-existing psychological scars, and he reminds himself not to say it to Dave. He needs to stop this, all of this, but there's a feckless expectancy because he doesn't think he knows how.

"You—you left two days after her birthday. Or don't you _remember_ that?" It sounds like Derek's apparently thinking along the same lines. "Jen wanted to run away because she thought it would make you come back!"

Jason at least has the grace to look ashamed at the accusation. "I know," he says quietly.

"Knowledge doesn't excuse you." It's Emily, the first thing she's said, but she sounds nothing like _Emily_. Her voice is cold and flat, each word punctuated with the staccato enunciation that says she'll brook no argument, and she catches Jason's gaze and just _holds_. "You left. You broke your promises. What kind of absolution do you think we're going to give you?"

Tears are not for her—not now; later, perhaps, and even later than that it will occur to them that she's following in Aaron's footsteps. For now, though, she stands like a bastion, unyielding in a betrayed fury that's been lurking since the day Jason Gideon walked out.

"Em—"

"Emily," she snaps icily. "Only my family and my friends get to call me Em." The message is clear: _You are neither_.

 

_Be my saviour  
And I'll be your downfall.  
Here we go again,  
Ashamed of being broken in_.

 

Jason looks like he's been slapped; if it had been anyone else, Dave might even have felt sorry for them at that moment. As it is, he's just making sure his oldest doesn't break his hold, and he's looking at Aaron, who still looks like hell. Then his husband pushes himself upright, quietly determined to do what he thinks is incumbent upon him.

"I will give you five minutes to say whatever it is you came to say. But you say it to me. If you talk to anyone else, it's because they choose."

He squeezes Pen's shoulder, swings over the porch railing, and gestures at the garage. "We're not making a scene in the front yard." This is his game face, his court voice, and again, Dave Rossi almost feels sorry for the ex-husband. It's short-lived.

"Come on," he says gently, letting go of Derek with an apologetic squeeze of the shoulders once Jason's out of sight. "Let's go inside. Papa will find us if he needs us."

Only when they turn do they see Spencer in the doorway, a puzzled look on his face as he stares in the direction in which Aaron had taken Jason. For Derek, it offers purpose, a cover, and he offers his arms to his little brother, who climbs up willingly.

"Papa?"

Derek exchanges an unsteady glance with Dave.

"Papa's talking to someone, Spence," he offers quietly.

"Who's Papa talking to, Daddy?"

That's about when David Rossi realises he has absolutely no idea of what to say. Unfortunately, he's going to have to find the words in a moment, because Spence has his curious face on, and Derek? Derek is holding onto his younger brother for all he's worth. So he swallows down the urge to go after his husband and says instead, "Someone he knows from work."

It's not entirely a lie, and the steady tone with which he says it is laudable. Spencer, after all, was only a baby really when Gideon had left. It's not something he remembers, and there should be someone in the family who doesn't have to deal with this today.

"Can I say hello?"

"Spence... maybe later, okay, barnacle?" It's Derek who fields that question. "Right now Papa needs to talk to him, okay?"

Again, it's not quite a lie, and it's keeping Derek—and yes, Dave himself—from doing something they might regret later. No matter how much momentary satisfaction there might be, they both know it would hurt Aaron as much as, if not worse than, it would hurt Jason; just as Dave won't add hurt to his husband's scars, he knows Derek wouldn't dream of hurting his Papa, even unintentionally.

"Why don't we go inside and I'll give you some more cake to demolish, okay?"

The boy hesitates, then nods amiably. Though he senses something isn't right, the distraction suggests he should let it go. Inside, Emily's standing by the sofa, JJ wrapped in her arms. The younger girl is still crying and trying not to, and Pen sits despondently on the sofa, staring at the wand in her hands as though she still harbours the wish that she could cast a spell and fix the day's derailing. Glancing again at Dave, Derek acknowledges the nod and takes Spencer into the kitchen while his father goes to his sisters.

"Hey," he murmurs, a comforting timbre running through his voice, and he wraps both his girls in a hug, holding an arm out to Pen. Rather than join the hug, she comes over and latches onto Dave's leg; despite the precarious balance, he doesn't protest, placing a kiss on the top of Emily's head and squeezing JJ's shoulder.

"Why is he back?" Emily sounds more like herself now, less thunder and darkness in her voice, but she's still thrown. Again, Dave doesn't know what to say, because he is, too.

So he admits it. "I don't know, Em, I really don't."

 

_We're getting off track,  
And I want to get you back again.  
I want you to trouble me,  
I wanted you to linger,  
I want you to agree with me_.

 

In the garage, Jason turns on Aaron, hurt and anger in his eyes. "How could you?"

Eyebrows shooting into his hairline, the younger man surveys his ex-husband. "How could I?"

_"David Rossi_?"

Aaron's answering laugh is harsh, incredulous, dismissing. "You left, Jason. I think you left your right to determine who I sleep with when you walked out the door. If this is going to turn in to a dissection of anyone's choices, maybe it should be about yours."

"You married him!" Jason shoots back, gesticulating furiously in the general direction of the house. "How long did it take for that to happen, exactly?"

Three years of sparring with Ziva David are the only thing holding Aaron from knocking Jason on his ass, but he can't quite keep from narrowing his eyes. "Two years, though it's no longer any of your business."

"It is my business! That's my family!"

"Was," Aaron snaps, ire settling into his vocal chords and coating his words. "Was, Jason. You left it behind, remember?"

And just like that, Jason deflates a little. "I—I did it to keep you safe."

_Party line_, Aaron can't help but think, and it stings as much as it tires him. "So you said. How well did that work, exactly?" He looks at his watch. "Three minutes, by the way."

"Aaron, it's me."

Pleading fills Jason's eyes, the look Aaron could never defend himself against before; this time, though, his defence is waiting inside his home, and he draws it up like a shield. He feels the impact, but it doesn't make him bleed.

"Yes, yes it is." A pointed look; then, "Eight years gone, and you walked out without a word, without a letter. You still have three minutes."

"If I hadn't left—"

"If you hadn't left, you'd have a right to be indignant, to come and make your claim. But we haven't asked you for anything. We don't owe you anything now."

"You really think that. After everything, you really think that?" From his tone, Jason thinks the answer should be "no".

Pretending to consider that, Aaron tips his head to the side, and when he speaks his voice is poisoned silk, velvet and venom born of, borne _through_, eight years of hurt. "No, I stand corrected; we owe you heartache and guilt and unanswered questions; we owe you a week of no answers, of fearing someone you love is dead. _That's_ what we owe you, Jason, except we're not going to give it to you." Taking a breath, he runs a hand over his hair, mentally reining himself in; it won't do to lose his composure now, and it doesn't matter that everything he thought had healed is bubbling up into his throat and begging to be given a voice. "You heard JJ. She tried to run away because she thought she'd made you leave. Yes, I think you lost any claim you had."

"I didn't mean for her—"

"It happened anyway, didn't it?"

"I didn't mean for a lot of things to happen, Aaron..."

"Jason, don't say it," he warns. "This family isn't yours anymore, and I'm... I'm definitely not. You don't get to claim that. You don't get to claim _me_." Jason's expression is almost argumentative, and Aaron shakes his head. "Do you have any idea what it was like trying to explain what happened? Trying to raise five kids myself and convince them it _wasn't their fault_ you left? God, Jason..." For the first time, Aaron's voice wavers. "I wanted you to come back so badly it wasn't even reasonable. But wanting, wishing, it doesn't make things happen, and it didn't make you change your mind, no matter how many times I wrote them out for you."

Again, he looks at his watch. "Your time's up, Jason. You've lost your right to this family. I'd like you to leave, please."

Something in Jason's eyes shatters, and Aaron's resolve almost follows. "I'd like to talk to Spencer."

A pause, in which bitter responses run through his mind like film reels—"We would have liked you to come home, and it did us no good"—and he doesn't know where the switch is; then, "Only if he agrees, and only if Dave or I are here."

Slowly, Jason nods. He knows when he's lost. So Aaron leaves, makes his way back to house, and when he walks in, the room freezes.

"Hey, Spence?" he asks, standing in the archway to the kitchen. He's trying not to notice that Dave and the girls, standing in the living room, and Derek, in the kitchen with his brother, have frozen, eyes on him like he's father turned harbinger of doom. In this endeavour he's only marginally successful. "Come here for a second, buddy?"

"Papa?"

And Aaron's out of words, trying to find ways to explain this. "Do you... do you remember Jason?" he begins, awkwardly. "He was here... before Dave," he explains, and he watches his son process this, slowly, conjuring up memories he, by all rights, shouldn't have.

Slowly, he nods. "Yes. Kinda. He was there sometimes. He sang stuff?"

"Yes. He's here," Aaron says. "He wants to see you, but only if you want to see him."

_It's okay if you don't_, he thinks but bites back. No leading.

Derek stares, but Aaron shakes his head just enough to be noticed, and Spencer cuts off any prospective response. "Okay. Will you come with me?"

"Yeah, buddy, I will."

Then they're back in the doorway, and Dave steps forward; again, Aaron shakes his head. _Don't_, his eyes beg. _Please, I won't have the resolve if you do._ Mercifully, Dave stops, though whether because of coincidence or because he understood or Aaron isn't certain. But there are shadows of an eight-year devastation in both their eyes that neither of them wish to relive, and they're afraid they're walking straight into the eye of the storm, or perhaps the tenth dimension of their own private hell.

Spencer looks between his parents with a worried face. "Papa, did I do something bad?"

At that, Dave almost loses it—Aaron sees it in lines around his mouth as he presses his lips together and swallows hard, so it's he who answers, voice surprisingly steady.

"No, barnacle, you didn't do anything bad." He drops a steadying hand on his son's shoulder, reassuring and grounding. "Shall we?"

When Spencer walks out in the garage Aaron sees Gideon start and look, then look again.

"Spencer, do you remember me?" Jason says.

Aaron is resisting the urge to intervene to say it's all wrong, to pick up his son and tell Gideon to forget it. His youngest son is currently looking at Gideon with something between bafflement and fear, and the thought arises unbidden of what right, exactly, they have to put him through this.

"I'm... I'm..."

He looks awkwardly around, anywhere but at Gideon, edging away towards the door.

"You used to be here sometimes, right?"

"Spencer, didn't your Papa tell you about..."

Shaking his head, the boy cuts off Jason's question better than anything Aaron himself could have produced. At least Jason has the sense to back off, because Spencer's projecting "stay out of my space" in very large letters.

"You've... you've grown so incredibly much," he says, and though his eyes are sad, Aaron sees the answering flash of fear in his son's eyes.

Will to resist gone, he steps forward. "Spence, you can go back inside if you want, okay?" The relief in Spencer's face is worth it, even in the face of the pleading look Jason is shooting him.

"Jason, you don't have the right." Aaron doesn't entirely know how he's managing to hold it together at this point. Maybe it's just that he doesn't want to cause any more upset by the kids hearing raised voices, let alone the sounds of a fight.

"He doesn't know me, Aaron!"

"Goddamnit, Jason, you left when he was one! What did you expect after that departure?"

Jason looks like he's about to say something else, and watching him, Aaron thinks he could feel sorry for his former partner, but it's not enough. Not for this to keep going as it is.

"You've had your five minutes." It's a quiet declaration that leaves no room for argument. Jason's heard it before, he knows, has heard him speak in court, will recognise the implications though this is the first time he's used it on Jason himself. "You talked to Spencer—you need to leave now."

"He doesn't know me," Jason repeats, and this time the accusations are gone, abrogated by loss and hurt.

Again, that sense of feeling sorry for the other man, but still it's not enough to overpower the anger. Aaron's not one to hold unreasonable grudges, as a rule, but he thinks he's justified in this one.

"No," he answers. "No he doesn't."

Swallowing hard, Jason nods, just once, then heads for the door; Aaron turns, following him with his eyes as though to make sure he really leaves. At the fenceline, just before the front yard begins, he stops and turns back, a touch of _This isn't how I wanted it to happen_ in his expression.

"For what it's worth, Aaron--_" Don't,_ Aaron thinks. _I don't want to hear it_. But he knows if he says it out loud, he'll have cut off something like _I'm dying_, and then he'll never forgive himself. "--I am sorry."

The words are hesitant, foreign and uncomfortable on his ex's tongue, for apologies have never been his forte. Aaron nods in acknowledgement, holding Jason's gaze.

"I hope so," he says. "I know I am."

It's Jason who breaks eye contact, and then he's gone. Only after he's watched the car drive off does Aaron let his fist hit the wall. The bruised and bleeding knuckles that result might be worth it, even if they don't stop either the ache or the hope that none of the family inside had to hear any of that conversation. There's been enough hurt today without having to hear that.

He needs to see if Spencer is okay.


	3. Chapter 3

_Their words mostly noises,  
Ghosts with just voices,  
Your words in my memory  
Are like music to me_.  
“Set the Fire to the Third Bar” --Snow Patrol

“Is he coming back?” Pen’s lower lip is quivering, for all she’s tried to be brave.

“No, sweetheart, I… I promise he’s not going to come back.” He doesn’t know that it makes a difference, but nonetheless he fakes a conviction he’s not sure he feels and pushes the malice away, out of his voice.

“I don’t have to go away with him?”

That’s when he hugs his youngest daughter as tightly as he possibly can, because it might not fix things, but maybe it can help.

“No, sweetheart,” he repeats, “you don’t have to go anywhere.”

When he’s got the younger three settled (or something like it) on the couch and Aaron is making them all hot chocolate, Dave goes out to find Derek sitting on the porch. His oldest still looks like he’s at the mad end of upset, but then, it’s not really a surprise. They sit in silence for a while, and then Derek bursts out with an expletive.

“I don’t know what he was fucking thinking would happen! What gives him the right to think he can be here, to stand here and ask for pity and articulate all the reasons we should feel sorry for him for some reason? How can he do that?”

“Got that off your chest, Der?” Dave asks, deliberately dry.

Der. It’s the family nickname they hardly ever use anymore, and Dave picks it because he wants to make the atmosphere a little less painful; there’s been enough of that today. In return, he gets a smile from his oldest—weary, but brilliant.

“It helped. I don’t know about off my chest, though. I still don’t understand how…” He trails off, and Dave offers him a half-smile that’s meant to be reassuring.

“Don’t worry, Derek, I don’t think anyone but Jason Gideon understands why he’d think this was a good idea. I’m just sorry you guys all had to see it.“

At another time he might have considered an explanation (Derek, like any of their children, appreciates that form of discussion), but he knows neither of them have the emotional energy or the charity to look at this from Jason’s side. There are times to be fair and there are times to let human emotions in the door even if they’re not fair. Today likely falls into the latter category of events.

“I’m not letting him get to me, Dad.” A flash of a grin; then, “I’ve got a father, and Pop’s always been there. I just… I’m going to continue to exercise my right to be pissed as all hell.”

“You are, at that.” Dave pauses, waiting for his son to step into the opening if he has a response; he doesn’t, so Dave forces a calm he hasn’t been able to capture all day and asks, “How are your shoulders?”

Derek turns quickly, dark brows arching up in surprise. “Wha—oh,” he says with a low laugh. “I’m fine.” Whatever expression is on Dave’s face suggests he isn’t convinced, because he adds, “Really, I get worse bruises lifting weights,” and the amusement in his voice isn’t feigned.

“I’m still sorry I grabbed you so hard.” Dave shakes his head, throwing a rueful look at the young man. “I was just afraid you were—”

“Going to go off the porch, I know,” Derek finishes for him, sighing. “You weren’t wrong.”

“Nonetheless,” Dave replies, tipping his head in acknowledgement, “I’m sorry.”

His son shoots him a short, sharp look that’s altogether too knowing, but he doesn’t speak for a long moment. Just when Dave’s getting used to the silence, he says, “You didn’t hurt me,” but it’s matter-of-fact, not meant as reassurance. “He never hit us, either,” he adds, which is not at all what Dave had expected, “except once, before he left—he slapped Pen, and… I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen Pops that mad, and I’d still have fingers left over.” A pause, like he’s weighing his words; then he continues, “But he wasn’t… _there_ like he said he would be. He was a provider, not a caregiver.”

It’s insight that makes him sound thirty-eight, not eighteen, but Dave bites back the surprise. “He loved you, even if he was bad at showing it,” he offers, compelled to honesty, if not mercy, in spite of everything. Even so, he can’t stop the past tense from slipping through.

“Academically, yeah, I know that, but... with the memories, it’s hard to remember.” Derek traces the pattern in the patio cushions with the edge of his palm, quiet for a moment. “You, Dad, I don’t question,” he adds, a little suddenly, and for the second time in almost as many minutes, it’s not what Dave expected. “I’m not worried you’ll hurt me, that you won’t be there when you need to be. I’m not the only one.”

“And if I leave tomorrow?” Dave asks, quietly, an undercurrent of uncertainty running through the flip tone.

In response, Derek simply laughs, tossing a teasing grin in Dave’s direction. “You won’t. Pops is scarier than you are.”

That startles a short, sharp laugh out of him, and his answering grin is gently amused. “That’s just what we want you think.”

Again, Derek laughs, shaking his head and flopping back in his chair. They sit in silence for a while longer, until it really does get too cold to stay outside.

_I come to you in restless sleep,  
Where all your dreams turn bitter-sweet,  
With voodoo doll philosophies  
And day-glo holy trinities_.  
“Thick as Thieves” --Natalie Merchant

His daughter’s door stands half-open, and though it’s dark inside from his viewpoint in the hall, Aaron knows without doubt that Emily’s there. Knocking gently on the frame, he waits—their household tries to respect privacy as much as possible, and enough boundaries have been crossed today.

“Come in,” Emily calls, and he steps in soundlessly.

She’s tucked into the window seat, legs curled beneath her, idly petting a stuffed puppy half as big as she is. It had been something of a gag gift from Dave, returning from a week out of town; what he _hadn’t_ known was that she’d had an atrocious week at school with some acerbic comments made about adoptees and not belonging, and she’d frozen for a moment when he offered it to her, then launched herself at him and nearly knocked him over.

It had been an interesting evening, to say the least.

“You doing okay?” he asks softly, sitting down opposite her.

After a moment, she shrugs, expression shadowed in the angles of half-moonlight filtering through the window.

“I shouldn’t say this,” he adds, “but you did good today, sweetheart.”

A tiny smile turns up the corners of her mouth. “Thank you.”

“Where on earth did you ever learn to do that?”

At that she meets his gaze squarely. “From you,” she answers quietly, and he has to physically check the surprise.

“Careful,” he warns at last, gentle teasing in his voice, “or you’re going to wind up like me.”

This time the smile is broader, though still fleeting. “There are worse things.”

He doesn’t, in truth, know how to respond to that, so for a minute he doesn’t, letting the silence quilt into something like comfort.

Finally, he offers, “He didn’t do it to hurt you.” The “you” is collective, but the point stands, and even in the darkness he sees the angry flash of her eyes.

“He didn’t do it to hurt you, either, Papa, but the point is that he did.”

For what feels like the millionth time that day, he’s startled by his kids, by their maturity, by their perspicuity, and suddenly he feels impossibly old. “He thought he was… protecting us,” he explains, even though the words feel trite. When her head snaps up, he holds up a hand to stay her protest. “I’m not defending him, Emmy, or trying to justify what he did,” he says, a soft reminder, “but he didn’t leave with any malicious intent. It…” Trailing off, he sighs, then finally continues, “It doesn’t change anything, but it’s something to remember.”

She shakes her head, toying with the puppy’s floppy ear, but says nothing, though the words sit sharp on her tongue. He sees it in the set of her shoulders, in the furrows of her brows the tension in her fingers.

“Em?”

Biting her lip, she shakes her head again, then says, “I don’t want to forgive him.”

“That’s okay. You don’t have to.”

Again, she hesitates, and when the question comes, it’s unusually apprehensive. “Have you?”

It takes him a moment, debating the truth of his answer, and finally blows out a slow breath. “Truthfully, Em, it depends on the day,” he admits, and his daughter goes from surprise to something akin to relief.

“There are still moments when I miss him,” she tells him, and he can barely hear her, “and then I’m pissed all over again _because_ I miss him.”

He chuckles, low in his throat, resigned and a touch sad. “I know exactly how you feel.”

A sigh; then, “I think I want him out of my life, and then he walks back in and I want to kill him all over again.” She’s tracing patterns in the puppy’s fur, absently, like she doesn’t realise she’s doing it. “It should be easier now.”

“Except it never is,” he finishes for her, and she nods. “It…” He trails off, starts again. “He doesn’t… he doesn’t think the world works quite the same way we do. Sometimes there’s nothing you can do about that. It made him a good agent, but it… it didn’t always make him a good person.”

“Then why—” She cuts herself off, but he knows what she wanted to ask.

“Why did I marry him?”

Like a deer in the headlights, she freezes, guilt in her eyes, and he smiles, albeit without any humour. “It’s okay. I’d ask, too.” Running a hand over his hair, he mulls over his answer, and finally says, “It felt right. A million people are going to find ways to tell you that love doesn’t always work the way you think it should, and they’ll be right, even if they’re patronising jerks.” She smiles, reflexively. “We didn’t always agree, but Jason felt right. He did up until… up until that week before he left.”

“He was wrong,” she says, and he dips his head in a nod but doesn’t agree.

There’s another minute of silence, and finally he pushes himself to his feet, because he’s not sure he can continue the conversation and not give himself away. No one in this house needs another exploding parent—not now, at least. “You did well, Emmy,” he repeats, dropping a hand on her shoulder and squeezing gently, and she nods in acknowledgement.

He’s at the door when she calls after him, “Papa?”

“Yes, Em?”

“I love you.”

He smiles, genuinely, for the first time since he walked onto the porch that afternoon. “I love you, too.”

_Remember next time when you fall,  
When you crash into that same ol' wall,  
Don't call.  
Follow your star to God knows where;  
When it burns out, I won't be there.  
I'm so done pickin' up the pieces_.  
“Pieces” --Linda Eder

When Dave gets to the bedroom, he points at the bed. “Sit,” he orders without preamble as he detours into the master bath. He emerges with the first-aid kit, and Aaron’s expression is both amused and thrown while he complies.

“Trust you to notice,” he says quietly.

“Trust you to know how to punch a brick wall and not leave any marks,” Dave shoots back, but the concern in his voice softens the sharpness. “I don’t know whether to be grateful you can or indignant you ever felt the need to learn in the first place.”

Aaron doesn’t say anything, just lets him rub antiseptic cream into the tiny abrasions and wrap his knuckles in gauze. It’s overkill, and they both know it, but it makes Dave feel a little less useless. Afterward, he just tosses the kit onto the dresser—_that_, at least, can wait.

Instead, he drops onto the bed beside his partner, half-turning to face him. “You doing okay?”

With a shrug, Aaron runs his hand over his hair; it’s a helpless gesture, one that makes Dave wonder if he shouldn’t have gone after Jason Gideon with his hunting rifle. “Yes. No. I don’t know.” The younger man blows out a breath, shakes his head. “I thought I was fine. Would be fine. Something. But I keep _remembering_, and I know it’s irrational, but I keep coming back to _what did I do wrong_?”

His voice breaks halfway through the last phrase, and he won’t look at Dave, who sighs, leaning back. Being prone feels far too good after being on his feet all day, tense and uncertain, and he stretches out an arm. “Come here,” he offers, unspeakably, unreasonably relieved when Aaron does, curling up against him. He bites the doubt back, swallows it down and tucks it away: it’s the last thing Aaron needs right now, and he won’t add his fear to the existing weight. Not tonight.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” He wraps his arm around his partner’s shoulders, threading his fingers through his hair. It’s an awkward angle, and his elbow will scold him for it come morning, but it’s the best he can do.

“I know better,” Aaron murmurs, voice muffled against Dave’s shoulder. “I should have—”

“Stop.” Reaching for the younger man’s hand, Dave shakes his head. “Don’t do that to yourself. Please.” _He’s not worth it_, he can’t help but think, and he chases away the thought that it’s injudicious of him. At the present moment, he doesn’t really much care.

Drawing in a shaky breath, Aaron grips his hand harder. “You know what’s ridiculous?” he asks, but it’s the epitome of rhetorical, given that he continues before Dave has a chance to answer. “This was his idea of an apology, like walking in here would just… fix things, like he could just come _home_ and everything would be fine again.” His laugh is bitter, raw, harsh, and then it sounds more like a sob and all Dave can do is hold him tighter. “He’s so used to… to wordless solutions, to having them _work_. Maybe it’s my own damn fault for _letting_ it work when we were married.”

He sniffs, and Dave’s almost convinced he’s pressing closer, even though the younger man hasn’t moved at all.

“It was _not_. _your_. _fault_.” He presses his lips to the top of his partner’s head. “Jason is Jason, and just because he—” He bites off something distinctly uncomplimentary with a mental shake of his head. Again. “You can’t help who he is.” Which is at least a mild improvement over, _It’s not your fault he’s a manipulative bastard with a ridiculous brain_. “Just because you might understand doesn’t mean you have an obligation to forgive him.”

“_He was my husband_.”

There’s still an instinctive reaction to that fact, one that consists mostly of Dave’s heart dropping straight through his stomach, but he just shakes his head like it doesn’t matter. “Do you know how many grudges my ex-wives and I still hold against each other?” he asks instead. It’s about three parts serious and one part flip, but he’s rewarded with a watery laugh.

“It’s just…”

Again, Dave squeezes his hand. “It should be different, I know.”

Aaron doesn’t say anything, just presses closer and braces his forehead against Dave’s shoulder, a silence descending that’s as comfortable as it is comforting. They are both of them used to confrontation, to strident noise and the noxious odour of hypocrisy; today, however, has had more than its share of acerbic discord, and the quiet is a blessing.

Finally, Aaron pushes himself upright, blowing out a slow breath and drawing his hands down his face. “_Lugh_. I… I’m sorry,” he mumbles into his hands, and Dave turns, bracing his weight on one elbow.

“What the hell for?”

Shrugging, the younger man looks over at him. His eyes are red-rimmed and exhausted, but when he speaks his voice at least is steadier. “This. All of this. It’s not your fight. I’m sorry you had to.”

“Hey, I signed up for this, remember?” he points out, holding up his left hand pointedly. “I don’t recall either of us agreeing to stick around for the good days and leave in between.”

Lips quirking up in a wry half-smile, he nods. “I know. It’s just… this is… it’s not the usual sort of thing.”

There’s not really a good way to refute that, so Dave doesn’t bother trying. Instead, he raises a sceptical eyebrow and says only, “Please tell me you aren’t so articulate in court.”

Aaron shrugs, Dave rolls his eyes, and Aaron actually laughs. It’s subdued and tired, but it’s still a laugh—it counts for something, and the mood is lightened. “Yes, well,” he says, running a hand over his hair. If he was planning to go somewhere with that, the thought seems to abort, because he shakes his head. “I think I need a shower,” he observes wryly, “clear my head.”

Sitting up the rest of the way, Dave nods. “I think you do, too.”

“Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

Aaron shoots him a _look_ before getting up, grabbing the first aid kit off the dresser on his way to the bathroom. Neat to a fault, he is. But just as Dave’s about to grab a casefile or check the kids or, hell, get a drink, the lawyer comes to stand back in the doorway. “Join me?” he asks, almost hesitantly. It’s like he’s expecting a refusal—or worse, for his partner to just not _be_ there when he gets out—and Dave has to focus on not looking surprised for a moment, because he knows it’ll come across the wrong way.

It’s not something they do often, showering together; mostly it’s due to the fact they don’t have time, whether because someone has practise or a late meeting or is out of town or even that the kids are up. Usually it’s reserved for nights when the kids are at a friend’s house, and those are rare. In spite of that—or perhaps because of it—Dave can’t quite help the pleased grin that crosses his face, even as he looks toward the door.

“It’s two in the morning,” Aaron points out a little too nonchalantly, “because this day is just too damn long. Everyone’s either asleep or not about to bother us.”

“Now that you’ve said that you _know_ this is going to be the night when my phone won’t quit ringing and Derek comes in to hit me over the head or something to answer it, right? Because we’d never hear the end of it.”

Breathing out a soft laugh, his partner shrugs, and the lines in his shoulders relax just a fraction. “I think that’s when you put it on silent for the twenty minutes it takes to get a proper shower.”

Even as he reaches over to do just that, it’s his turn to give Aaron a _look_, though his is of a different timbre entirely. “And _I_ think you have far too much faith in the both of us.”

_I’ll dress you in mourning,  
For I’ll triumph tonight.  
This town we were born in  
Will long remember how one night  
A boy who couldn’t read or write  
Refused to win or lose without a fight_.  
“I’ll Dress You in Mourning” --John Barrowman, _Matador_

Derek, on a hunch, finds Emily sitting in a corner of her room, now looking decidedly less furious and more generally upset. “Emmy, you okay?”

She jumps a little, looking up and waving him in tiredly. “Will you believe me if I say yes?”

“No.”

“How do you know me so well and how can I get out of it?” she says with a small, fond smile as he kicks the door shut. “Are you?” she adds as he comes to sit beside her, and when he offers her his hand, she takes it without hesitating. It’s an obvious question, but he knows she’s not looking for the obvious answer.

“You’re my sister,” he answers, matching her tone for tone. “You can’t.” Turning, she fixes him with a look that says it won’t get him out of answering the question, so he blows out a breath, admitting after a moment, “Pissed.”

“In an ‘I want to punch the wall’ kind of way, or…?”

“More in an ‘I want to hit _him_’ way, honestly,” Derek says.

“Join the club,” she responds drily, corners of her mouth quirking up. “I think we should have t-shirts.”

He looks at his little sister then, gauging her, weighing his words, then sighs. “I just… who the fuck does he think he is?”

Emily squeezes his hand. “I don’t know,” she admits, “but I think he thought coming back would…”

“Fix things?”

He feels rather than sees her decidedly unamused laugh as she shakes her head and leans against his shoulder. “I don’t really know. Maybe. He just… it’s like he expected everything to be okay once he showed up.”

“Did he expect us to just be here waiting for him?” He’s indignant—rightfully so.

“I guess so. I mean, it looks like that’s pretty much what he did.”

“He seriously thought he was just going to walk back in and it was all going to be fine, didn’t he?” It makes no logical sense, and though the fact that it’s compounded by their current standard of comparison does not go unnoticed, he’s in no mood to be fair.

Emily looks at her older brother, and he wants to fix the heartbreak for her. Or hit Gideon. Or maybe both.

“He was pissed at Papa, too, can you believe that?”

“I'm torn between yes and no.” He shoots his sister a sidelong glance. “I’m pretty sure Papa hit something, though. Does it make me a horrible person if I kind of want it to be him?”

“I really don’t think so. He deserves it,” Emily says vehemently. “I don’t care if that’s not charitable, it’s where I am.”

“Do you remember much about after he left? Just after?”

At that, she smiles, almost like she doesn’t quite mean to. “Dave’s food,” she says, chuckling. It’s rare they go back to “Dave”, but right now it means less confusion. “I must have missed a lot of the undercurrents there, but I remember the awkward ‘Dad’s on a business trip’ lines from Papa and how after Dave came he actually smiled. And it worked, too, until we found out Dad wasn’t really coming back.”

“You, too?” Derek grins back. “Yeah. I remember being grateful there was someone trying to make it easier on Papa, but I was so mad I didn’t trust him. Dave was trying to work out how to react to Spencer in the mornings, and I remember Papa really trying.”

Emily chuckles, low in her throat since it’s—he checks his watch—two in the morning. “I remember that, big brother. You were so mad and trying to get Dave to go away. Glad he didn’t listen?”

“Do you actually need an answer to that?”

She grins again. “Nope.”

He answers anyway: “I am now.”

“Glad to hear it, you.”

Derek rolls his eyes at her, and she mimes throwing something at him, then sobers. “Do you think the others remember very much? I mean… of before Dad?”

“Jay does, I just don’t know how much.” He pauses. "Beyond the obvious, that is. Pen and Spence… she remembers more, but it’s still confusing.”

“I don’t think Spence remembers at all?” Emily says, more a question than a statement as she considers it. “Jay… she remembers afterwards, she told me. And that he’d look sad when he was home. Pen? I think she gets confused, yeah. She remembers some of the last few times before… before he left. But it’s all jumbled up.”

“Not sure whether that makes it better or worse,” he admits, and she nods in agreement.

“I know. Me neither. And then I think about what both Papa and Dad have to be feeling, and then I feel guilty for even considering that.”

“I know, Em. And Papa doesn’t deserve to have to deal with this, let alone Dad.” Derek almost sighed. “Also, poor barnacle. I can’t believe he dared ask to see him, after all this.”

Em’s expression turns wry. “I tried getting mad at Papa for letting him, and I just couldn’t do it.”

Looking over at her, the wry note mirrored in his own expression, he agrees, "I couldn’t either, even when I’d like to.”

“Because if anyone could feel guilty at himself for what he did, it’s Pop.”

“If I wasn’t so certain I’d invoke it, I’d almost be tempted to ask.” He shakes his head. “I don’t even want to think about what today would have been like if Dave weren’t here.”

“It would have ended worse, for sure.”

Derek gives something like a laugh. “At least he grabbed me.”

Laughing softly, she shakes her head. “I almost would have paid to see you go up against him.”

“Would you now, Emmy?” He grins, raising an eyebrow. “I don't know, I think you’d do pretty well yourself.”

She grins in acknowledgement of the compliment. “In a courtroom or debate, maybe. You’re the quarterback, brother mine.”

“You remind him of Papa,” he points out, eyes dancing. “You had his court face on there earlier, I swear.”

Blushing, she ducks her head. “Well, you were channelling Dave when he’s being a bear, so maybe we’re even.”

Derek grins, a little abashedly. “Okay, you win, Em,” he concedes. “What did Papa say to _you_, anyway?”

  


  
_The floor in this house has been soaked through with tears,  
But that won’t matter when the fire starts spreadin’ here.  
It won’t be long ‘til it all goes up in smoke,  
‘Til the sparks grab a hold._   


_Let it all burn, bring it on down,  
Watch it all go up in flames;  
Let it give out, let it cave in,  
Let it bring down everything.  
Let it rise up ‘til this love  
Is nothing more than ashes on the ground_.  
“Burn It Down” --Whitney Duncan

  



	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This marks the end of _If I Could Go Back_; thanks for sticking with us!

_Crack the shutters open wide,  
I want to bathe you in the light of day  
And just watch you as the rays  
Tangle up around your face and body._  
“Crack the Shutters” —Snow Patrol

Aaron wakes alone at—he checks the clock—0700h to an empty bed. Though he has the residual headache that comes of too many tears, he’s surprisingly steady given the events of the previous day. So he throws back the covers and digs a pair of track pants from the dresser drawer before going in search of his errant partner. On a hunch, he checks the kitchen first. Bingo. Dave’s tucked into the nook overlooking the porch; it’s not visible from the door and is too small to be called a proper room, but it’s quiet and good for contemplation.

He pours himself a cup of coffee and slips in behind the other man. “Hey,” he says softly, sitting down on his left.

Glancing up and then away, Dave answers, “Hey,” just as quietly, and Aaron frowns, reaching over to lay a hand on his arm.

“You okay?” he asks, tentatively. They both know there’s a given amount of “no” to be had after yesterday, but he knows Dave well enough to know the other man had tried to push his own concerns out of the way last night. By the looks of things, there were quite a few.

“Yeah.”

Dave takes a sip of coffee, an excuse to pull his hand away, and Aaron just watches him steadily, waiting. Usually, it works; today, it’s less effective—or so Aaron thinks, until he realises Dave’s fiddling with his wedding ring. Again. And then it clicks into place.

“He has nothing here, hon,” he says quietly, and his husband’s shoulders tighten. “You didn’t usurp his place, you didn’t take anything from him.”

Still Dave won’t look at him, so he reaches over and entwines their fingers, left to left. “I’m wearing your ring.” It’s a reminder, an affirmation. “You’re wearing mine.”

“And this—all of this—was his. His place, his family.” Dave’s voice is so low Aaron has trouble hearing him, even though the house is silent and there’s nothing in the room but sunrise.

“All of which he walked away from.” Pausing, Aaron tries to piece his words together, gather his thoughts before he says the wrong thing. “If one of your ex-wives walked in here, would you go with her, give her everything she had in your marriage?”

That gets Dave’s attention, and he looks up in confusion, not a little “have you gone mad?” in his eyes. “What? Of course not.”

Nodding, Aaron runs his thumb across Dave’s knuckles. “Then why, pray tell, should I do that for Jason?”

For a moment, Dave says nothing; if not for the tightening of his grip on Aaron’s hand, it would seem he hadn’t heard the question. Finally, he looks up, eyes overbright, and says, “Because none of my wives divorced me because I almost died.”

Heart in his throat—Dave is more prone to getting a bit smashed and putting his fist through a wall than tears and self-deprecating reflection—and not entirely certain how he’s supposed to respond, Aaron hesitates. “So if I wanted to pick up and leave, I should have done it after Foyet got to you?” The name is still acrid on his tongue, but it’s a point he feels he needs to make.

Dave’s shaking his head, pinches the bridge of his nose, draws his hand across his eyes. “I still think you should have left,” he answers haltingly, “but...” Looking up, he meets Aaron’s eyes a little more squarely. “I’m glad you’re as stubborn as you are and didn’t listen.”

There’s a sharp exhale that might qualify as a huff of laughter. “Says the pot to the kettle.” When Dave actually laughs, unsteady though it may be, Aaron breathes a little easier.

“You’re sure we did the right thing.”

“I am.” His lips quirk up in a wry grin. “If he’d stayed, there might have been a revolt. Or possibly a murder.”

Nodding in agreement and not bothering to disagree, Dave sighs, tracing the handle of his mug with the tip of a finger. “I...” He huffs out a simultaneously wry and disgruntled laugh. “You know how pissed I was—am—with him,” he comments softly, “and then he actually shows up and all I can think of is that I stole something from him.”

With a shake of his head, Aaron slowly shifts the ring on his partner’s hand, thinking. “He has,” he begins finally, “he lost his right to pick up where he left off. You were our choice, mine and the kids’, and I say it was a damn good one.”

Dave’s grip tightens, almost reflexively. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you more.”

“There was only so much you could have done, and you went far beyond that. I couldn’t ask you to do anything differently.”

His partner’s answering smile is a touch uncertain. “I wish it hadn’t...”

“I know. Me too. But he’s got no claim on the kids, Dave,” Aaron repeats, squeezing his hand. His smile is gentle, and he adds, “He’s got no claim on me, either.”

“Are you sure?” The question is hesitant, one last check to ensure all the bases have been covered.

“I'm here, aren't I?” With his free hand, Aaron tips his partner’s chin up with steadying fingers. “I'm here,” he repeats firmly, carefully, “and I have no intention of changing that.”

“Having him show up out of the blue didn't—”

“No,” Aaron interrupts kindly, “no, it didn't. It caught me off guard. It hurt like hell. It brought back far too many memories, as you’re more than well aware, but there were no second thoughts.”

Slowly, Dave nods, and when he looks up, his eyes and his expression are clear. “My Aaron.” He’s said it a lot, in the years they’ve been together, but this time—this time there’s a different shade to the assertion, he thinks.

“Yours, Dave,” he agrees. “Yours.”

_I hold on to worry so tight,  
It’s safe in here right next to my heart,  
Who now shouts at the top of her voice,  
Let me go, let me out, this is not my choice_.  
“Let the Rain” —Sara Bareilles

Just after breakfast, Aaron goes through the messages on the landline; one is a wrong number, one is nothing but static, but the third is from Friday afternoon, and he realises he’d never returned it. Preparation for the ceremony had taken all their attention, and the message had been lost in the shuffle.

“Hey, Aaron, Dave,” Mac Taylor says in his ear, “it’s Mac. Give me a call back when you get this, please.”

The New York CSI’s voice is unusually reserved, like he’s reading from a mental script and determined not to deviate. It’s what had caught Aaron’s attention the first time he’d heard it, and he wishes he’d remembered to return the call earlier. It’s only 0930, and on a Sunday, to boot, but he dials the number anyway and is only marginally surprised when Mac actually answers.

“Hey,” he answers, “hope I didn’t wake you.”

Laughing softly, the detective responds with a dry “I wish”. “Neither of us have slept past about nine since... probably the academy, and that’s _still_ late.”

“True. How _is_ Stella?”

“Irritated with my apparent inability to stay on task this morning, but to you and Dave she says hello.” The grin is audible, and Aaron chuckles. “How is that husband of yours?”

“Tired,” the lawyer admits, mildly amused at their consistent tendency to ask about one another’s partners and not each other. “We both are. Anyway—I’m belatedly returning your call. We got swept up this weekend with Derek’s graduation. What’d you need?”

“Well, first of all I wanted to tell Derek congratulations.”

“I’ll p—” Aaron cuts himself off when the past tense registers, because it’s followed by a horrible sense of foreboding, of pieces clicking into place. “I’ll pass it on,” he starts again. “How did you know?”

Now there’s a pause, which is unwonted with Mac in normal conversation. New York to Virginia is no casual, happen-to-be-in-the-area drive, but they exchange phone calls on as regular a basis as their schedules will allow, and they’re accustomed to one another’s conversing habits. This isn’t one of them.

When the words come, it’s in a rush, a very uncharacteristic tripping over syllables like he just wants the words _out_: “I saw Jason Thursday night. I tried calling you, but—”

“But you got our voicemail,” Aaron finishes, shaking his head at himself. “I wanted to call you back, and then we got caught up in graduation.”

“I figured as much,” he admits. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know if it was any of my business, but I saw him and thought you should know.”

“No, I appreciate it. Our fault for not getting back to you in time,” Aaron points out wryly.

He senses more than sees the CSI’s nod. “Are... did you—”

Saving his friend the awkwardness of asking, Aaron cuts him off gently. “Yes.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, and Aaron shrugs even though the other man can’t see it.

“Not your fault.” He’s not entirely sure how to be convincingly reassuring, but the compulsion is still there. “It was hardly a pleasant experience, but even so it wasn’t your fault.”

“Mmm.” Mac’s tone says he doesn’t believe a word, but he’s polite enough not to fight that too hard. “You guys doing all right?”

Hesitating for just a moment, Aaron finally nods. “Mostly. It was unnerving, but we’ll get there.”

Understatement of the year, but even with as close a friend as Mac, he’s still not good at detail. Then Dave enters the kitchen, nodding at the phone in curiosity as he pours himself another cup of coffee and swipes Aaron’s mug for a refill.

“Mac,” Aaron mouths, then frowns. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

Mac’s voice is amused as he repeats, “I asked if Dave was about.”

“Perfect timing, then, since he just walked in. Hang on.” Holding the phone out towards his husband, he trades it for his coffee cup with a nod of thanks before heading into the living room and dropping onto the sofa.

The entire house has an air of melancholy quiet to it that hasn’t dissipated since last night. Emily’s tucked into the corner of the loveseat, re-reading a battered copy of a Tamora Pierce novel; JJ’s curled up next to her, half-reading and half-dozing against her sister’s shoulder. She had come to breakfast with shadows still lurking under her eyes, though it was hardly a surprise she hadn’t slept well. Derek’s sprawled in one of the armchairs with a copy of _Faust_—even he doesn’t really understand why it’s his comfort read, but it is—and Spencer’s sitting at his brother’s feet with a Rubik’s cube in his hand. Bored with solving the cube the traditional way, he’s designing a starburst pattern instead, one that Pen’s mirroring with crayons on a sheet of paper.

Vivaldi’s playing on the stereo, and Aaron leans back and blows out a slow breath, revelling in the presence of his family. It’s enough. On the outer registers of his perception, he hears a car door slam outside, hears the click of the phone as Dave sets it back on the receiver. Then the doorbell rings, and Dave’s steps divert toward the front door. For one horrible moment, Aaron thinks Jason’s returned and yesterday still isn’t over.

Until he hears Jethro Gibbs say, “Hey, I just wanted to drop off Derek’s card,” and he releases a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.

“Come on in,” Dave offers, stepping back as Aaron walks into the foyer.

“Thanks. ‘Morning, Aaron.” Gibbs nods at him in greeting as he toes his shoes off. “I’m sorry I missed the ceremony yesterday,” he continues. “Sec Nav called my team in last minute on a triple homicide, and we’ve been on the clock for about forty-eight hours straight.”

“Ouch.” Dave winces in eloquent sympathy. “Don’t worry about it. Did you at least catch the unsub?”

“If we had such things I’m sure we would have.” Gibbs manages to keep a straight face despite Dave glaring at him, at least until Aaron starts laughing. “Yes, we did,” he answers eventually. “Idiot was hiding in his mother’s basement.”

“Thank god for stupidity,” Aaron quips.

“Exactly. How was the ceremony?”

Gesturing in the direction of the living room, Dave suggests, “Ask him yourself. Can I get you a cup of coffee or something?”

“Nah, I’m good.” Gibbs turns toward the archway, and Aaron and Dave exchange looks.

“Are you sure?” Dave’s the one who voices the thought aloud, tone rife with mock concern. “You just turned down coffee. I think you might be dying.”

Laugh low in his throat, Gibbs shakes his head. “Don’t have room in my schedule for dying.” Heading into the living room, he calls, “Derek! Congratulations!”

Despite the mood of the room, Derek breaks into an involuntary grin and comes to his feet. “Thanks, Uncle.” Gibbs is a favourite in their household and a frequent guest, and Derek pulls the older man into a hug.

“Uncle Jethro!” Pen’s greeting comes almost before Derek’s done speaking, a huge smile on her face as she gloms onto his leg, and he leans down to pick her up.

“Hello, Penny.” He’s the only one who calls her that (mostly because she doesn’t _let_ anyone else call her that) and she wraps her arms around his neck. To Derek, he asks, “How was it?” as he slips a copy of a Dave Duncan novel to Emily, a CD of Broadway covers to JJ, and one of those impossible-to-undo chain-link puzzles to Spencer (who will have it undone in five minutes). He’s their version of the uncle with endless pockets, and Aaron hides a smile—Dave has teased Gibbs more than once that his clothes have acquired more pockets since he was adopted by the Hotchner-Rossi kids.

“Good, I think. Glad it’s over. At least I didn’t trip all over the speech.”

Laughing from the doorway, Aaron says, “To the contrary, he got a standing ovation.” His expression is full of nothing but pride, and Derek ducks his head with a shy smile.

“I’m sorry I missed it,” Gibbs tells him, holding out a card. “I hope this makes up for it at least a little.”

Derek’s expression goes from curious to astonished in the space of a few seconds, eyes widening as he pulls out seven Yankees tickets. “Seriously??”

“Seriously. I figured if nothing else you could sell them and have some money for college,” Gibbs comments, but his wink ruins the effect.

“No way!” Derek laughs, hugging him again on the side Pen isn’t occupying. “Thank you.”

From the sofa, JJ picks up her head and asks sleepily, “Are you staying for lunch, Uncle Jethro?”

He tosses her a smile and shakes his head before either Aaron or Dave can actually invite him. “Sorry, J, I have to get back to work today. Con your dad into cooking something good and save me some?”

Giggling, she nods and curls back up to Emily, who says nothing but tips her head to the side and just gives Gibbs a _look_ that says everything. He grins at her as he bends to put Pen down, and Spence walks up to him and holds out the detached chain links. Everyone else unsuccessfully attempts to hide their amusement, and Spence just looks around like he doesn’t understand what’s so funny. Gibbs winks at him, twists his hands, and puts it back together; for a moment Spence looks offended, then gleeful, and Gibbs chuckles.

“Try not to have it back together before I leave.” Spencer grins back at him and nods, and Gibbs pushes himself upright, glancing up at Aaron. “Can I have a word before I go?”

Aaron’s look turns concerned, and he glances at Dave, then back at Gibbs. “Sure,” he answers, nodding at the kitchen, but before he can ask why, Gibbs leans against the counter and shoots them both a long look.

“What happened?”

Again, Aaron trades looks with Dave; he knows damn well no one in their right mind lies to Jethro Gibbs, and for the most part he’s never had cause to. This, though, neither of them are willing to relive.

“What do you mean?” Dave asks finally, but the silence has gone on too long for that to be a viable response, because the look Gibbs shoots him is full of “don’t fuck with me”.

“Rossi,” he says sharply, blue eyes narrowing, “don’t play stupid. You can say I didn’t do anything _about_ the problems in my relationships, but you can’t say I didn’t _see_ them. There might as well have been a funeral in this house this morning the way you all are acting.”

Aaron flinches before he can stop himself, and he sees the “oh shit” expression on Gibbs face that says the older man thinks he’s put his foot in his mouth again. “No, no one _actually_ died,” he hurries to clarify, “it’s just...” He blows out a breath and thinks about hitting his head against the cabinets to put himself out of his misery. “Jason showed up yesterday.”

“_What_??”

“Yeah.” He offers Gibbs a half-smile in lieu of asking outright for the ex-Marine to not run off in a homicidal rage; Dave step up next to him, his hand settling at the small of his back, and it makes thinking a little bit easier. “He came by after the ceremony, everyone blew up, and... and now it’s over.”

“The hell did he want?”

Had the question come from anyone else, Aaron and Dave both probably would have thrown the speaker out a window. Since it’s Gibbs, and from him blunt disregard of boundaries either means you’re a suspect or he loves you, they let it go.

“He wanted to see the kids, tell Derek congratulations.” Aaron gestures vaguely, and Dave reaches up to catch his right hand before he gets smacked in the face.

“He also wanted to see Spencer,” Dave explains, and watches Gibbs’ eyebrows hit his hairline. “I think he thought coming back would just fix everything, and he got the shock of his life when he realised it didn’t.”

Gibbs is shaking his head, part in disbelief and part in anger. His attitude toward this family is protective for reasons he doesn’t care to examine too closely, but anyone who knows him can see they have “Shannon” and “Kelly” written all over them; Jason Gideon’s actions have always rankled him. “I—” He cuts himself off abruptly, but both Aaron and Dave are fairly certain he was going to say something along the lines of “I told you Jason was an idiot”.

“Thank you—for not saying it.” Dave’s dry and self-deprecating, startling a laugh out of his friend.

“Sorry. That’s what I meant to say: I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

“So you could shoot him?” Aaron’s smile takes the bite from the words. There’s little doubt in his mind that Gibbs _would_ have shot Jason if it came to that, but he’s also sure it wouldn’t have—Jason was never one for that kind of confrontation. Tackling people was almost always someone else’s job. “There was nothing you could have done, Jethro, except pound him, and Derek was a hairsbreadth away from doing it himself.”

For a moment, Gibbs opens his mouth, and then he shuts it again without saying anything. “I’d have paid good money to see that,” he says finally, one corner of his mouth quirking up in something that almost passes for a smile.

“Derek outweighs him by...” Dave pauses. “A lot,” he finishes lamely. “It wouldn’t have been much of a contest.”

“No, but still entertaining,” Gibbs replies, dry, and Aaron laughs in spite of himself.

“You two are horrible.”

Dave flashes him a broad grin. “Part of our charm.”

Gibbs snorts. “You’re deluded, Rossi. We _have_ no charm.”

“I beg to differ!” Aaron protests, slinging an arm around his husband’s shoulder, but the effect is positively ruined by his inability to maintain a straight face. He knows full well they’re exaggerating the comedy, but he appreciates the effort.

Once they’ve sobered, Gibbs asks, “Is there anything I can do?”, but Aaron and Dave are both shaking their heads.

“What this needs isn’t _possible_,” Aaron admits tiredly. He’s resigned to this concept and has been for a while, but that doesn’t make it any easier to say aloud. “What _he_ needs isn’t possible.”

“A soul?” Gibbs deadpans, and again Aaron finds himself choking on his laughter while Dave doesn’t bother trying to hide his. “Seriously—are you guys okay?”

“We will be.” They’re bad at this, all of them; heart-to-hearts aren’t really their style, except where the kids are concerned. “The kids are a little shook, and we’re still mad as rabid bulls, but we’ll be fine. No terminal damage.”

Nodding, Gibbs pushes himself upright. “All right. I’ll get out of your hair, but I’m sorry yesterday didn’t work out.”

Breathing out a half-laugh, Dave nods—in agreement, in thanks, in something else entirely. “To put it mildly. You really are welcome to stay to lunch, you know.”

“Nah,” the agent answers, turning toward the door. “I actually do have to get to work—Vance is on my ass to make sure our case is airtight, and for once I agree with him. Go be with your kids.”

“Thanks for stopping by, then,” Aaron says, walking him to the door. “Good luck with the case.”

Stopping just long enough to pop his head into the living room, Gibbs says something to the kids that provokes a low ripple of laughter; then he turns, clapping Dave on the shoulder and giving Aaron a rough, one-armed hug before slipping out the door with a wave over his shoulder. “Call if you need anything,” he pauses long enough to say from the sidewalk, and Aaron signs a “thank you” rather than saying it aloud.

Locking the door, he turns to find Dave right behind him, so he leans in for a kiss. “Was nice of him.”

“Too nice.” It’s wry and full of affectionate exasperation, and Aaron sighs, pulling back just far enough to rest his forehead against his husband’s.

“I hoped that was just me.”

Dave quirks an eyebrow, equal parts sincere and comedic. “Should we go stop him?”

It takes a moment—just long enough to make them both wonder a little—and then Aaron shakes his head and wraps his arm around his husband’s waist. “Nah. I think Pen’s calling for a movie, and if we leave now we’ll have a mutiny on our hands.”

“Good excuse,” Dave says with gentle, teasing approval as they walk into the living room, just in time to hear votes for _Mulan_ outweighing Derek’s dramatic protest.

It’s Dave who slips the disc into the player and turns the television on, and then Pen squeezes between him and Aaron, curling up against his side. Today—any day—this will do.

_It’s so hard to see your dreams you’re building  
Come crashing down fast just like dominoes.  
You can’t hide on rooftops from raindrops,  
So spread your wings and soak it up_.  
“What If?” —Emerson Drive

Jethro Gibbs is sitting in his car at a truck stop off the interstate, tucked into the shadows just over the corner of the borders of Pennsylvania and Maryland. He has a cup of coffee in hand, carries neither badge nor service weapon (his personal gun is tucked into a holster at the small of his back), and wears a dark expression on his face that has nothing to do with the last homicide that had come across the NCIS Major Case Squad’s collective desk and everything to do with the semi pulling into the stop.

The driver steps out, pulling off a baseball cap and running a hand over his hair before replacing it. Gibbs slides out of the car but leaves the keys in the engine, moving catlike across the hundred yards into the shadows between the restrooms and the visitor’s centre. As the driver comes around behind the centre, Gibbs steps out silently, and the other man doesn’t see him until he speaks.

“ ‘Evening, Jason.”

And Jason Gideon stops in his tracks, looking around until he spots the dark-clad figure leaning casually against the outer wall. “You seem to have the advantage on me,” he observes with a calm that has Gibbs itching to slug it out of him.

“Gibbs,” he answers evenly instead. “Jethro Gibbs. We haven’t met.” Which isn’t strictly true, as they’d met one another years ago at a conference. Gideon had given a presentation, and Gibbs hadn’t liked him anymore then than he had upon learning the Hotchner-Rossi family’s history. This time, however, Gibbs had the upper hand, as he’d only been required to attend and had had fewer faces to remember. If the look on Jason’s face is any indication, he doesn’t recognise Gibbs’.

“What can I do for you, Jethro?”

His first response is to draw the other man back between the buildings; it’s instinctive, if your conversation partner steps away to follow, to some degree. Trained though Jason Gideon is (was, perhaps, would be the better verb), he does as Gibbs hoped.

“I’m a friend of Aaron’s,” he says by way of answer, and the flare of brief hope in the driver’s eyes is almost painful. Nonetheless, Gibbs tamps down the “what ifs?” that floats through his mind like a litany—what if he were Jason? What if Aaron were Shannon? What would he do?—because this isn’t the place for it. “I hear you paid them a visit this weekend.”

The set of the other man’s shoulders turns defencive, hostile, braced for a fight. “And if I did? What is it to you?”

“Oh, there’s no ‘if’,” Gibbs answers easily. It’s like waiting for a panther to pounce, lethal, dark beauty that coils under silk to deliver the fatal blow. If Jason knew Gibbs at all, he’d be seeing the muscles tensing, preparing for the leap, in the tightness around his eyes and mouth and the fighting balance in his seemingly relaxed stance; but he doesn’t, and it leaves the field to Gibbs’ advantage. So he leaps. “And I’m here to tell you that you’re done with them.”

“You have no right—”

“Neither do you,” he replies in that same easy tone, smooth as silk and deceptive as a carnivorous tree. “I at least was _here_.”

“Not that it’s your business, but I’ve left to _save_ them,” Gideon says, with all the righteous arrogance of a martyr, and Gibbs’ snort of disbelief is more eloquent than anything he could have said aloud.

He speaks anyway: “Bullshit,” he snaps, colder than arctic wind. “You left because you couldn’t _deal_.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Gibbs raises a disbelieving eyebrow, but he reins in his temper, and his inflection remains calm as though he’s discussing the weather, somehow all the more dangerous for its bland disinterest. “I know someone took my wife and daughter from me, and I’d give anything to have them back, just like I know you threw _your_ family away.”

Momentary confusion passes across Jason’s face, but it’s gone in the blink of an eye; Jason analyses his life the way he used to analyse crime scenes, which is to say with a blind impartiality. It had made him a brilliant profiler; it also made him a rather awful human being.

“It’s different,” is all he says, because for him Gibbs’ declaration is nothing more than another fact.

In the face of that—talking about Shannon and Kelly is still like lancing a wound sometimes, particularly to people like this—maintaining the easy façade is like pulling teeth, but the agent bites it down and meets Jason’s eyes with the precision of a well-honed blade. “Damn right it’s different,” he says smoothly, “because you’re not going back.”

“Who’s stopping me?” Jason’s somewhere at the crossroads of confused and dismissive, and it makes Gibbs want to plant his fist in the man’s nose. Multiple times.

“Me,” he returns, fist carefully unmoving at his side. “Any number of people who’d sacrifice their jobs to see that you don’t hurt that family again. A forensic scientist who can make sure no one ever found a trace of your body if it came to that.”

Now Jason’s looking at him like he belongs in a psychiatric ward—talking about murder like it’s your average lunch fare will do that to people, particularly when that person happens to be a former law enforcement officer. So Gibbs keeps talking.

“Listen to me, Jason Gideon,” he says, enunciating as though he speaks to someone of questionable intelligence, “you may think you got away with this, that you did them a favour, but trust me when I say you couldn’t be more wrong. You did a bad thing leaving, but you’ve done a worse thing coming back.”

“I still fail to see why this is any of _your_ business,” Jason says stiffly, and for a fleeting moment Gibbs is reminded of an English lady with her pinky finger extended over tea.

“Oh?” Gibbs quirks an eyebrow in lieu of doubling over in laughter at the hysterically absurd image. “We’re Marines, Jason Gideon. We protect our own.”

“It’s none of _your_ concern, Gibbs.” Even in the face of the agent’s not-insignificant anger, he doesn’t back down. “None of it is, particularly the ways in which my husband does or doesn’t decide to keep his vows.” Arching a challenging brow, he adds, “And Marines expect loyalty in return, don’t they?”

“Indeed they do.” Gibbs meets his gaze and holds; Jason couldn’t have looked away if he tried. “So it’s a good thing you aren’t one, or I wouldn’t have bothered to have the conversation first.”

“I’m glad I’m not, if it means you interfere in strangers’ business and take up loyalties where you don’t have the full story.” Gideon laughs then, and it’s bitter, mocking. “I’m tired of people using loyalty to condemn me in the name of a husband who was never loyal in the first place.”

Patience worn thin, Gibbs slams the other man into the wall, forearm pressed against his throat just hard enough to be noticed—at the Bureau, Gideon would have been held to the same fitness requirements as any other field-ready agent, but in the years since his departure his hand-to-hand skills have slipped and his reflexes are no longer as sharp (though the way Gibbs hears it, hand-to-hand was never Jason Gideon’s forte). “You. Left.” He punctuates each word by tightening his grip around the other man’s wrists, pinned to the wall over his head. “You walk away and you don’t get to hold other people responsible for the things you couldn’t handle,” he hisses. “If you leave, you damn well better have the balls to own up. You don’t get to throw this back in Aaron’s face. He’s a better man than that.”

Gideon shuts up, maybe just out of some sense of self-preservation. He doesn’t have to like it, but Gibbs has been reading people for a very long time, and there’s a sense of understanding in the former agent’s eyes that pleading won’t work against Gibbs’ implacable fury.

“I also hear,” Gibbs says with venom, “that you tried talking to the kids.”

“They’re _my_ kids,” he snaps. Apparently the resolve to shut up was short-lived.

“Like hell,” Gibbs snarls, angry and defencive and taking the comment perhaps more personally than he’d care to admit. “They’re not objects. Signing their adoption papers or their birth certificates isn’t like signing the papers on a goddamn house. You don’t get to claim ownership, and you certainly don’t get to do it when you’ve never been there. Because even when you _were_ there, let me tell you that the involvement of you versus Aaron didn’t even begin compare.”

There’s the slightest widening of Gideon’s eyes: fear, perhaps some questions of “how much does he know?”

“You’re not remotely qualified to speak to that,” he says at last, and Gibbs wishes for a fleeting moment that he wasn’t bound by a morality that dictated he not kill people for sheer stupidity. He wishes he didn’t know that Aaron would never forgive him if he _did_ kill Gideon, because it’s the only thing that really stays his hand. The rest could be explained away, to varying degrees, but deliver a blow like this and no one in that family would forgive him.

“Oh yes I am,” he says instead, “because unlike you I stopped to _listen_ to Aaron, to the kids. Kids can come up with a lot of wild stories with just a touch of the wrong prompting, but _these_ kids, the ones you claim to know so well, don’t make up things like ‘Daddy forgets us sometimes’.”

Gideon tries to jerk away reflexively, like Gibbs has socked him in the gut, and the agent sees the denial, the guilt that flits through the older man’s eyes like so many music notes. He knows, in the rational part of his mind, that there’s nothing he can say to make Jason Gideon understand, but if it keeps him away for a few months, for a year, he’ll count it a plus and help the family shore up their defences.

“I know what kind of work you did.” It’s low, threatening, so measured in its dedicated pacing that it’s frightening. Gideon had faced down men with bombs, men with rifles held to his head, men with all manner of blood on their hands and never once flinched, but it’s the sniper speaking now, with all of that deadly patience. “You saw kids kidnapped, abused, abandoned, and worse, and in the face of all that _you still left_. You abandoned those kids, your husband, when you knew damn well the kind of impact it would have on them. You weren’t saving them. You were saving yourself.”

There’s a dawning realisation on Gideon’s face, and even though it won’t be enough, the comparison seems to invoke enough guilt, and Gibbs pushes himself away and shakes his head in disgust.

“I really thought better of you, Jason,” he says thoughtfully. Whether it’s true or not is a moot point. “I thought an agent of your calibre had to have a better head on his shoulders; it seems I was wrong. So you’re going to get back in that truck and drive—I don’t care where as long as it’s not towards Virginia. And I promise you that if you ever, _ever_ come back, you’ll have an army to get through before you can touch that family.”

There’s a look of baleful hatred shot his way, even as Gideon starts to walk away. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Oh but I do.”

Not until the semi is pulling out of the stop does Gibbs himself step out of the shadows of the buildings and head for his car.

“You can come out now,” he says drily, sliding into the driver’s seat, and there’s the rapid, whispering slide of metal on metal that can only come from experience as his partner dismantles the sniper rifle and pulls herself into the front seat.

“I am disappointed, Gibbs,” Ziva David says disapprovingly as he starts the car. “I thought you would at least let me hit him.”

She’s Aaron’s sparring partner, former Mossad, and one of Gibbs’s agents; he expected no less. He’ll owe her husband dinner and a few beers, come to think of it, since Tony DiNozzo would have accompanied them in a heartbeat, but he had been one of Gibbs’ for almost ten years; the younger man knows how he thinks, and he understands better than most a drive to protect the family you chose. Aloud, Gibbs says only, “Now Ziva, imagine what Aaron would say to that.”

She doesn’t bother to grace that with an answer, pointing down the road instead. “At least follow him to make sure he’s truly leaving.”

The smile he shoots her is made entirely of predatory resolve. “I intend to.”

_When you’re dreaming with a broken heart,  
The waking up is the hardest part.  
You roll out of bed and down on your knees,  
And for the moment you can hardly breathe_.  
“Dreaming with a Broken Heart” —John Mayer

 

_Finis._

_Feedback is always appreciated._

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Find Your Way In](https://archiveofourown.org/works/194810) by [Hagar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hagar/pseuds/Hagar)
  * [New Leaves](https://archiveofourown.org/works/403839) by [Wesfanemt333](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wesfanemt333/pseuds/Wesfanemt333)




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